


With The Lights On

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, I have too many Boyd feels for my own good, M/M, Some incredibly vague unrequited Derek/Stiles, Top!Stiles, What the hell did I just write?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Boyd only do it under the covers with the lights off, curtains drawn, windows locked, and bedroom door locked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With The Lights On

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was originally writing something else, but then I ran into this prompt on the kinkmeme: 
> 
> Derek helped Scott from dying by Victoria's wolfsbane diffuser, but who helped Boyd? Stiles did, he made sure Erica and Isaac made it back to Derek's den and in doing stumbled upon Boyd and fixed him up. After that night Stiles has been receiving gifts: stuffed animals (not real ones because let's face it that's creepy), food, video games, etc. Turns out Boyd is appreciative. 
> 
> Would love some Boyd/Stiles, such beautiful contrasting people, both physically and mentally. Derek/Stiles is welcome too, I can see him being pissed, not to mention possessive, that Stiles would choose Boyd to be with.

They only have sex in the dark with the window shut, the bedroom door locked, as if they can only do it when sure no one can find them. They also do it with the sheets pulled over their heads, for reasons Stiles isn’t sure of. It’s not that he doesn’t like it, mind you, it’s just . . . strange. And stuffy as fuck. And, maybe, for once, Stiles would actually like to see Boyd when they’re, you know, doing the deed. Even _making love_. Call him sappy.

Boyd won’t hear anything of it, though. Whenever Stiles asks, Boyd just folds his arms and stares, doesn’t say anything, just _stares_ , and—dammit—how does he do that? He doesn’t have say a damn thing, while Stiles has to press and complain and bitch until he’s blue in the face to get anywhere. Well, no, that last bit is a bit of lie. After a few weeks together—Is this dating? Are they dating?—Stiles has figured out the right buttons to press to get some response.

Like, yeah, that one time when Allison’s dad shot you with wolfsbane bullets outside the warehouse party? Who was the one who found you after he’d made sure Erica and Isaac were okay, the who carried your heavy ass all the way to the vet’s office by himself, may he add? Boyd always falters at this point, shoulders slumping and hands shoving into pockets. It’s a low blow, but it’s not like it actually works for Stiles. Because then Boyd reminds him that he’s paid him back in full, with the gifts, the video games and the stuffed animals and the helping hand in understanding Derek and this whole pack thing.

And, this is where Stiles gives in, because, yeah, he’s pretty fucking grateful for that. Sixty dollars for a game he’s only going to play, like, once? Bullshit. Oh, and the Derek thing, too, he’s grateful for that.

Stiles doesn’t mind giving in, really, not if he gets to hold Boyd like this, pressing in close, sliding his hands down those firm sides, back around to his ass. Boyd doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to, not with the way he noses against his cheek, tentatively places his hands on Stiles’ hips. It’s funny how Boyd, the bigger, more intimidating one, even before he was turned, is the hesitant one, the submissive one. That first time when Boyd shoved the petroleum jelly into his hands, rolled onto his stomach, Stiles had a bit of a freak out seeing as he’d only just came to terms with bottoming himself.

It was a surprise, but a pretty fucking good surprise. Oh, so fucking _good_.

Kissing is the best part, you know, beside the sex. He likes how Boyd goes stock-still when Stiles closes the space between them, likes curling his fingers around Boyd’s face when he finally lets him in. He likes the way Boyd tastes like his dad’s whiskey and how he always, always smiles into the kiss, always chuckles. Stiles just likes _kissing_ , especially when it’s Boyd. But, shit, when over the smacking and slurping of the kiss, Stiles hears that moan, feels that needy rumble everywhere their bodies touch, he’s done for, freaking done for.

Stiles pulls back and, yeah, this is where he starts to get excited, heart thudding in his chest. He tugs at the hem of Boyd’s shirt. “Can I?”

He tries to not look like an eager puppy, tries and fails. He waits for it, for when Boyd smiles broadly—like that—and nods—like _that_ —and mumbles, “Yeah,” and—oh hell _yes_.

There’s a second, then Stiles scrabbles haphazardly to pull that damn shirt off, to reach sharp angles, bunching abs, _skin_. In fact, halfway through the endeavor he kinda forgets what he’s doing, because all he wants is to do is lick that stomach, to press sloppy, open-mouth kisses down until he reaches that pesky waistband. Boyd tastes of sweat and dirt and all things that Stiles shouldn’t and doesn’t like, but because it’s _Boyd_ it’s different.

Stiles doesn’t realize that they’re moving until the back of Boyd’s knees hit the bed and Boyd tumbles back on to the sheets, taking Stiles with him. Shaken, they meet each other’s eyes . . . then, Boyd _laughs_ , a real, full-bodied howl of laughter, and Stiles has never seen this, seen the other teen so undefended, open. It’s almost like—like someone has flicked the light on, you know? Like, the real Boyd is finally shining through. It makes his stomach flutter, makes his face split in a grin, and he laughs too, crawls up to straddle him and laughs. It’s Boyd who leads the kiss this time, all tongues and lips and chuckles.

“Why don’t you do that more?” Stiles breathes when they pull apart.

“Do what?”

“Laugh like that.”

Stiles’ stomach drops when Boyd’s smile falters, but is thankful when it stays.

After a moment, Boyd shrugs, slides his hands up Stiles’ thighs. “Guess I’ve never had much to laugh about.”

There’s something in the way he says it that Stiles knows he isn’t talking about the Argents or the Kanima. There’s an old ache there that’s still dangerously close to the surface, right under the skin. As much as he hates to admit it, Stiles really doesn’t know that much about Boyd, like his home life and stuff. Sometimes, he wonders if Boyd holds a grudge against him for all those times Stiles could have asked, could’ve just _spoken_ to him, but didn’t. Guilty, Stiles traces his fingers down Boyd’s clavicle, down to rest over his heart.

“We’ll have to change that, won’t we?” Stiles can’t change what he didn’t do in the past, but the two of them together? They could build new memories, right?

Boyd’s eyes widen for a moment, surprised. “That sounds like a threat.”

A chuckle and Stiles moves to suck at Boyd’s jaw. “A promise,” he murmurs, “I promise you that.”

This time when they ditch the rest of their clothes and shimmy under the covers, there’s something in the way that Boyd claws at his back, the way he kisses. Boyd’s usually quiet when they do this, not doing much beyond pants and gasps (And, how can he do that? Stiles leaves sex hoarse every fucking time), but this is different. When, sucking in warm air, Stiles prepares him, eases onetwothree fingers in, that sound that Boyd usually chokes back flows from him, over them. This time when they fuck—have sex—make love—whatever the fuck they’re doing—they do it face to face, strong legs wrapped around Stiles’ waist.

Maybe, Stiles thinks, maybe this is the beginning of that change. Maybe this time Boyd won’t roll off the bed when it’s all over, won’t shower his smell off, won’t send his clothes through the washer because of _Derek_ (and Stiles still doesn’t get that, by the way). Maybe this time Boyd will stay and this thing, whatever it is, will be more of a thing, will be a _something_. Maybe when Boyd catches his eye when they’re with the others, he won’t have to look away, pretend that it isn’t intentional. What Stiles really wants is be able to go out on dates with Boyd, to go to diners and bars and parties, and be able to introduce him as his boyfriend, as his. Maybe, for once, they’ll be able to have sex during the day without that damned sheet pulled over their heads.

It’s sappy, really sappy, but Stiles thinks Boyd will be okay with that. In time. He just needs time and lots of hugs and laughs. When Boyd shoves his nose into the pillow, growls his name, and _comes_ between them, Stiles swears to give him all that and more.  


End file.
